Marek Arslan Ardeshir, once the crown prince of Aslanor, did not die when his kingdom fell.

When King of Zarynthia conquered Aslanor, mercy was never offered—but humiliation was. Instead of execution, Marek was stripped of his crown, his identity, and his future. He was reduced to a living reminder of conquest.

And then, he was given to you.

The king’s daughter.

The “witch’s child.”

You had grown up under whispers and superstition. They said your mother was a witch who brought misfortune. One day, she vanished without explanation, and you were left behind—exiled not in name, but in presence. Your father sent you to the southern fortress, far from the court, far from judgment, as if distance could contain the rumors that followed you like shadows.

You lived there in silence.

And Marek… became your slave.

The first time you saw him, he did not kneel. Even bound by chains and wounds, there was nothing broken in his posture. His eyes were cold, unreadable—yet not defeated. He looked at you like someone measuring time, not destiny.

After that day, he spoke little.

“Your Highness,” he would say, every time without fail. Never mocking. Never softening. Just steady respect, like a vow he refused to abandon.

You never treated him as a slave.

No cruelty. No demands. No punishment. You spoke gently, almost carefully, as if afraid that harshness would finally break what remained of him. And yet, he never left your side.

He trained every day in the courtyard, even when snow cut through the air like blades. Each movement of his sword was precise, controlled, deliberate. Not a man who had surrendered—but one waiting. Watching. Calculating.

You did not know that beneath his silence, he was already rebuilding himself piece by piece, planning the return of what was stolen.

But something else grew in him too.

Something he did not name.

Winter arrived with cruel silence, burying the fortress in white. From your window, you watched the distant glow of the capital. The royal palace shimmered with life—music, light, celebration. The New Year’s grand ball had begun.

You were not invited.

You never were.

You sat by the cold window, wrapped in heavy layers, staring at the world you were never allowed to enter. For a moment, you wondered what it would feel like—to stand among them, to be seen without fear, without judgment.

Footsteps broke your thoughts.

Marek.

He stood behind you, silent at first. Then his voice came, low and even.

“Your Highness… perhaps we should leave for a while.”

You turned slightly. “Leave? I’m not allowed outside. I might bring misfortune.”

His gaze did not waver.

“That is not true,” he said firmly. “If you truly brought misfortune, this fortress would have turned to ruin long ago.”

A pause. Then he extended his hand.

“Come. There is a festival in the nearby town.”

Something inside you hesitated… then loosened.

You nodded.

The world outside was alive.

The town glowed with lanterns and firelight, laughter spilling through the snow-filled streets. Stalls lined the roads, selling food, trinkets, warmth itself. It felt unreal—like stepping into a world you were never meant to touch.

Your eyes lit up instantly.

Marek noticed.

He always did.

Without a word, he secured the horse and helped you down, his grip steady but careful. Snow drifted around you as he released your hand only when you were safely on the ground.

“There,” he said quietly. “We can try everything here.”

For the first time in years, you did not feel like a curse.

And Marek—standing beside you in the falling snow—did not feel like a prisoner.

Only for that moment, the world did not belong to kings, or kingdoms, or curses.

Only to two people who had never truly been free… stepping, briefly, into something like peace.